Love in the Time of Corona #1

He was calling from his car. In the background, I could hear rain and traffic and engine noise. In the foreground, I heard terror gushing like a firehose.

The YMCA where I work is closing down to our members. A mass email had just announced that we were being converted to a child care center for the health care workers who are staffing our hospitals during the pandemic. My young colleague at the front desk, a handsome high school senior with chiseled features, a golden heart, and a glass jaw answered the call, then turned, wide-eyed and silently extended the phone to me.
“Hi, this is Bob. How can I help?”
“Let me just explain to you fuckers what you’ve done. You've killed me. I have a heart condition. My life depends on being able to get exercise every day. If I don’t exercise, I will die. Now I get this email telling me the family membership I’m paying almost a hundred dollars a month for... that nobody else in my family uses... that we only got so my son could play soccer which I’m sure will be cancelled anyway. You realize, right, that all these kids they are sending home, they can carry the virus for 14 days before they show symptoms? Right? Closing these schools has just guaranteed that their parents will all get it. And now you’re telling me I can’t use the membership I’m paying for? I want to cancel. This email is a fucking death sentence for me. You get that, right?”
I’ve spent hours training on process and procedure. Listening skills. Customer service. Learning the right thing to say to get and keep customers for everything from store fixture manufacturers to theatre companies. I’ve performed for crowds of thousands of people who laughed and cried with me. I’ve studied the scriptures, helped lead congregations, fallen in love with church communities, and had my heart and mind broken by them. I’ve read psychology books, sat for years on head-shrinkers couches, and given speech after speech about the wonderful history and culture of the YMCA. 
None of those things prepared me for this phone call.
Or maybe, all of them did.
“I can hear how angry and frustrated you are feeling. I want to make sure you understand that we are keeping one branch in the city open so people can work out...”
“Yeah, in the hood. So I can die by not exercising, or I can die walking in the shittiest part of town to workout in a place I’ve never been before.”

Now, I’ve heard this sort of thing from time to time. It usually comes from people who don’t like my neighborhood, (which is actually much closer to the shittiest part of town, if I’m honest about it,) and are nervous about the fact that the branch where I work is located beside railroad tracks, down the street from a major drug rehab center, and across the road from a homeless men’s shelter, near a street that the locals still call “Crack Alley.” I’m not used to hearing people say they are furious because they aren’t allowed to come up to the ‘hood.
“All of this is such bullshit. There is only one person in Lexington with the virus. It’s all politics. They are fucking with us and killing me. I had a blood clot that almost killed me. I will die without that elliptical machine, goddamit.”
Now, I do make an effort not to play the cancer card at every opportunity. Don’t get me wrong, I’’ve milked that old cow dry more than a few times. But it’s a little game I play with myself: How long can I go without telling someone I had cancer. It’s like my secret super-hero identity. I call him “The Amazing Cancer Boy.” Something told me it was time to pull on the tights and cape.
“You know what? What you’re saying makes absolute sense to me. I am a cancer survivor. I don’t know how I would have lived this long without the Y.”
“EXACTLY! People don’t understand how important this shit is to our sanity. I almost died, man!”
“I feel you, brother. After two months of radiation treatments and chemo, I threw a clot, saddle embolism.”
“THAT’S WHAT I HAD! The fucking widow maker."
“That’s why my doc called it, right! So you know what I’m saying. I would have lost my mind if I hadn’t found the Y 10 years ago. I think the most important thing for us to do right now is to find you a place where you feel comfortable working out. Do you agree?”
“Yeah, but... Everything is closed.”
“Listen, Planet Fitness is still open. I had a membership there for a while. It’s clean. Friendly people. Good equipment. Now, look. It’s not the Y. But for 10 or 20 bucks a month, you can have a place to work out until this corona thing blows over.”
“I don’t even know where... Where are they?”
“There’s one right around the corner, right next to Krogers on New Circle Road.”
“Man, that’s all the way across town.”
OK, something isn't right about this. Kroger is emphatically not all the way across town. It is 5 minutes away at rush hour.
“Brother, which Y branch do you use?”
“I can’t drive all the way over there. I am literally 3 minutes from the Beaumont Y. That’s why I called you!”
Dude dialed the wrong number. He thought he was calling the big, beautiful Y on the south end of town. The one with three swimming pools and thousands of members and a whole studio dedicated to martial arts. The Beaumont Y is bigger than many shopping malls. He thinks he’s complaining to the president of General Motors, and he’s got a clerk from the local bike shop on the phone.
“OK, first things first. It sounds like you’re driving, right? There’s a Planet Fitness on Nicholasville Road. Get over there and get a membership. I don’t want you to cancel your Y membership. I want you to call Beaumont on Monday and have them put it on hold for four months for you. Surely to god, this will all be wrung out by July. You can reactivate your membership anytime before them, and your boy can keep playing soccer. Listen, man. It’s gonna be OK. Get in that gym. Your family needs you, OK?”
“OK, that’s a good idea. I’ll do that, then.”
“You be careful, man. We’re gonna get through this.” 
Love in the time of corona is a complicated business. Things aren’t always what they first appear. Sometimes, a package of toilet paper is really a life preserver. A doorknob can turn out to be patient zero. For me, an entitled, bigoted bully turned out to be a man so afraid of dying that he had to go out in the rain and make an angry phone call from his car so his wife and kids couldn’t see the terror in his eyes. 
I just realized. I never even asked his name. I don’t think it matters.
And I can’t help wondering... Why in hell did that guy call my branch? How did his voice wind up in my ear? Reason tells me it was just a coincidence that out of all the bright faced, part-time  staffers in the city that he could have reached on a Saturday afternoon, he managed to get on the phone with an old guy at the wrong branch who had survived exactly the same life-threatening condition that he had. It’s ridiculous to infer some kind of providence that put me right there at the desk at that moment instead of washing towels, disinfecting exercise machines, meeting personal training clients, or guarding the pool as I had been doing for 98% of my day until that moment. It is absurd to think that in the middle of a plague, God busies himself routing customer service calls.
But in my absurd, ridiculous, irrational heart, I can’t help but take comfort from the thought...
His eye really is on the sparrow. Even in the time of corona.

Jaden's Family: A Safe Place to Be #becauseY

Mine is not the only Y story. I want to share some others, too, but to protect their owner's privacy, I will take a few liberties. I have made up names for them. I may also consolidate experiences of several people into a single tale. But rest assured, I will not make anything up. These are true accounts of how the Y has touched the lives of people I know and care for.

Click to learn more about Aspergers.

Jaden is small for his age. At 10, he looks more like 7 or 8. The doctors have told his parents Jaden has Asperger's . He doesn't know his diagnosis, but he does know he's a little weird. He knows because the kids at school won't let him forget. He gets teased because he sometimes wears funny looking outfits to school, and gets distracted a lot. He hardly ever looks right at you when he talks, and sometimes the things he says don't have anything to do with what's going on. In class, he is sometimes so shy that he can't even speak to answer a teacher's questions. At other times. he acts all crazy like he wants to be the center of everybody's attention. Every now and then, even his teachers have trouble concealing their frustration with him. Jaden feels like almost everybody in school has picked on him or made fun of him at one time or another. He tries not to think about it, but it still hurts.

Jaden's parents try hard to help their boy, but their lives aren't perfect either. His mom's health is very poor. She had a stroke a few years ago, and became very depressed and obese. Her heart is weak, and she needs a walker to help her get around. Years of smoking left her with COPD, and she uses an oxygen tank nearly all the time. Sometimes she forgets and lets it run out. When that happens, she gets very sick, and even falls down. A few weeks ago, the doctors discovered a lump in her breast. She wonders how many more things can go wrong. And she is very afraid she is going to die before her boy grows up. Jaden's dad works hard to keep his family together. He drives a school bus, and stocks the shelves at a grocery store in town. He hurt his back at work a few years ago, and it still bothers him, especially when the weather is cold or rainy. Sometimes the pressure of loving a sick wife and raising a strange, frustrating child makes him wonder if he isn't going crazy. Sometimes, he wishes he could just run away. But he never does.

Soon after her diagnosis, Jaden's mom learned about a program at the YMCA for cancer survivors. She and her family could have a free membership, while she worked with a group of people who had also had the disease. The trainers taught her exercises she could do, even with her walker. At every meeting, the group would gather and talk about life with cancer. It made her feel like she wasn't so alone.

Jaden's dad hadn't really exercised for fun since he was in high school. A member of the wellness staff at the Y met with him and they talked a little about his health and things he might do to reduce the pain in his back. As he come to the gym, lifted weights, swam, and chatted with other dads in the lobby, Jaden's dad started to feel like he was finally doing something to take care of himself, not just the people who needed him. It made him feel stronger. He realized that he wasn't going crazy after all.

Jaden's parents signed him up for a group that runs outside three times a week. The coaches know his name, and are always glad to see him. During warm-ups, he clowns around when he feels like it, and nobody tells him he's weird or to sit down and shut up. Jaden is always one of the fastest runners.  His mentor asks him how he's doing, and really listens. Some days, they laugh and talk the whole way. Other days, they are just quiet and the only sound is the pat-pat-pat of their feet on the pavement and their deep, easy breath as they run along for up to five or six miles. They always sprint the last 50 yards, and Jaden almost always wins. When it is Jaden's turn to lead stretches after the last runner finishes he takes the responsibility very seriously. He doesn't feel self conscious at all when he is leading the group. His coaches tell him he is a natural leader. Jaden thinks he might like to try doing a triathalon someday. His mom signed him up for swimming lessons, and she loves to sit on the bleachers and watch as he gets stronger and more confident in the water. One of the staff asked a local bicycle shop to donate a bike, and dad taught him to ride outside on the basketball court.

Click to read a great story about learning to ride

The Y is a safe place for Jaden and his family. They can be alone here. They can also find companions who listen and understand. For the first time in years, each of them feels like they are making friends. Mom and Dad are losing weight. The kids at school are still mean to Jaden, sometimes. But at the Y, he knows there will always be people who care and encourage him. Jaden's parents aren't kidding themselves. They know life is always going to be hard for them. But they also know that the Y is a place where they can do things together that they never thought they had time or energy to do before.

For each of them, in the ways they need it most, the Y is a safe place to be.

They Didn't Laugh... #becauseY

We have a tradition at the Y. At most big meetings, someone shares their "Y story." It's a way to remind those of us who work there that the YMCA is much more than just a place to work out. This March, as the YMCA of Central Kentucky conducts our annual fund drive, I want to share my own "Y story." I hope it will inspire you to think, to move, to donate, and maybe even start a Y story of your own. Here's chapter one.

The Five: why had God let me live?

I wasn't dead, and I had no idea why. My Brother-in-law, Aunt. Cousin, and a dear Friend had all been diagnosed with cancer within a few weeks of the day I was. I was the last one alive. With every clear scan, I grew more confident that God had saved my life. The last time I saw him, my Brother-in-law whispered to me through tears of joy, "It's all going to be worth it. God has saved you for a reason." I wanted to believe him, but for the life of me, I could not imagine what it might be.

Mrs P opened her email one morning in the spring of 2011, and called for me to hear it. The YMCA of Central Kentucky was starting a new program, in association with the Lance Armstrong foundation called LIVESTRONG at the YMCA. For twelve weeks, a small group of cancer survivors would work together with a team of personal trainers to build strength, flexibility, and endurance. That was all well and good, but the part that got my attention was a free, three month citywide family membership at the Y. We could spend the summer going to the pool, instead of sweating through the long Kentucky summer. A couple of lame gym classes a week would be a small price to pay. Besides, I had been trying to get strong again.

As soon as I could get out of bed, a month or so after my treatment was over, I started walking. I wondered if I could jog. I had been having a recurring dream about running and flying ever since I started taking Percocet to reduce the pain of my radiation treatments. Years ago, I had tried jogging for a while, but a bout of depression sidelined me. Since then my weight had ballooned to over 400 pounds before cancer treatment almost starved me to death. Now 90 pounds lighter, I started out slowly, and built up to the point where I could walk/run for almost an hour. That winter, I had finished the Shamrock Shuffle 3K. Could I go farther?

I started reading about running, and continued my run/walk journey. As I grew stronger, an impossible, unspeakable dream started to form in my imagination. Could I run a Marathon? I didn't dare ask the question out loud. It was too ridiculous. Only Mrs P knew. But in my dreams, as I slept, I kept on running the country roads around Lexington.

Coach Carrie and Coach Melissa

When I arrived at the Y in June of 2011 for my intake interview, the trainers heard my story and seemed impressed. As we were finishing, they asked me if I had any fitness goals. For the first time, I actually spoke the words to someone besides Mrs P.

"I've been reading about this race in Midway, KY in October. It's called the Iron Horse Half Marathon. I've been having this crazy fantasy about running in it."

They didn't laugh. Coach Carrie looked me straight in the eye. "Absolutely. You can absolutely do that. We can help you get there." Coach Melissa's eyes sparkled as she nodded in agreement.

Mrs P and Mom always talked like that, but I had never had a stranger see such strength and potential in me. As I walked out into the blazing sun, I got the feeling that something very important had happened during my first visit to the YMCA.

I had no idea how right I was.

Rising: Easter 2014

Dormont Presbyterian.... where I grew up

I have heard it at least three times in the past week. "Where do you go to church, now?"

Were they being curious? Kind? Offering an invitation? Making conversation? Whatever the case, the Communion of the Saints have been much on my mind lately.

Last night at midnight, I found myself online, looking for an Easter service. There's a little church in my neighborhood. I run right past it several times a month. A couple of the people in my classes at the Y worship there. Nothing to wear, though. I could handle being the only stranger. And I've gone to enough funerals in the neighborhood to be OK with being the only single white man in church. But sitting in the back row in khakis and a sport coat, wearing a shirt that needs ironing and shoes that are coming apart... it just seemed disrespectful to me.

There was a church once. (Not the one in the photo.) One I belonged to for years. The only place I ever really felt as if I belonged.  They made room for the kind of sinners, losers, failures and sons of bitches that Jesus used to hang out with. So, when I first arrived, there was a place for me, too. I went to their web site last night to see what time services were. I remembered a place where it didn't matter what you wore or how badly you'd screwed up your life, you could belong there.

And I remembered how much it hurt to watch a handful of angry people start to rope off the pews and lock up the side doors and back entrances. I fought them for as long as I could. Fought for the Gospel that had first welcomed, and then transformed me. Fought for the people who had found a church home for the first time in their lives. Before my fight was over, I wound up in a mental hospital. We lost. We lost the battle. We lost our home. I still believe that God lost, too.

But God will be fine. If Easter teaches us nothing else, we can be certain that God has a way of bouncing back.

Me? I'm not so sure about. And my church home? Judging from their web site, there is a thriving, loving community there now... but the my kind of trouble makers are gone. The people like me. The place that welcomed me is gone. I know the address, but there's no way back there for me. I drive a 14 year old Honda, not a time machine.

There have been other churches. Places where I was loved. Communities that offered me a place to rest or worship or serve. But my trust was gone. I didn't belong anywhere.

I know that's one of the reasons why it was love at first sight between me and the Y. I recognized the spirit of Christ there. Jesus was the woman whose bright smile and open eyes welcomed me on my first visit.  He comes there in bells and sneakers to dance in Zumba class. He arrives, laughing too loudly and covered with jailhouse tattoos to workout with the recovering addicts from across the railroad tracks, and tears up the weight room with them after supper to help them sweat out their demons. Jesus jumps into the deep water, helping his classmates to be brave and try, even if they are only 5 or 6 years old. He drops his children off at the Kids' Corner so he can go shoot some hoops with his buddies. And every now and then, on a dark winter morning, he limps in on frozen feet, and asks for a cup of coffee and a chance to sit down someplace warm before all the good, clean people who are so frightened of him start coming in to exercise before work. In some ways, those are my favorite visits.

I have sat in the lobby with Jesus on those days when it seemed like the sun was never going to come up and our lungs were never going to thaw, and he would tall me stories. Parables, maybe. About his family and how they had died or thrown him out because of his drinking. About the fortunes he had won and lost out at Keeneland over the years. The men he knew in the war. About how he could never live up to his father's standards or live down the heartbreaks of his past or find the love that would make him feel whole again. Once he told me about the years he spent serving as President of the World, and how he and General MacArthur saved the planet from nuclear annihilation. Just last week, he handed me a stack of pages torn from a children's coloring book and asked me if I would make him some copies to take back to the group home with him. It was the least I could do.

But every now and then, in a quiet moment, I'll ask him, "Lord, isn't there more? More for me to do? More for me to have? More for me to be?"

And every time, his answer is the same. "Pennsy, do you love me?"

After all we've been through together, it always hurts to hear him ask it.

"Lord, you know I love you!"

"Pennsy, if you love me, feed my sheep."

And that's how I know that I have found a place. Because here, where I might least expect to find them, the place is packed with Jesus' hungry sheep. I know, because I'm one of them.

You know, it's funny. This started out as a blog post about how sad I was that I didn't have a church home to worship in this Easter. Then right in the middle of the thing, Jesus shows up, smelling like a bus station men's room, and reminds me that he didn't have one either. Last Sunday, Passion Sunday, Christians waved palm leaves and sang Hosannas, and read a story about a man who was driven so crazy by what was going on in church that he started beating people up and busting the furniture. He made the wrong people very angry. And they made sure there would never be a place there for him there again.

So he found another place. One that no door could keep him away from. He rolled away the stone. Behind it, he found the world. He found you and me.

I'm not saying you can't find Jesus in a church pew. I'm not saying he doesn't go there or bless the people who do. But just like in Heaven, there are many mansions in the world. And while I miss the smell of lilies and the sound of organ music and trumpet voluntaries and the warm embrace of a hundred whispers of "The Peace of the Lord Be Always With You..." Even though I miss those things... I am grateful.

My heart may feel heavy as a stone sometimes, but there is no stone so heavy that the Love of Christ can't roll it out of the way to throw open the door and let the love pass through. And the only thing I am sure of is that when the tomb is opened, I will not find what I expect inside.

It is always so much more wonderful than I can ask or imagine. Once, I even met the President of the World.

The day of resurrection! Earth, tell it out abroad;
The Passover of gladness, the Passover of God.
From death to life eternal, from earth unto the sky,
Our Christ hath brought us over, with hymns of victory.

Our hearts be pure from evil, that we may see aright
The Lord in rays eternal of resurrection light;
And listening to His accents, may hear, so calm and plain,
His own “All hail!” and, hearing, may raise the victor strain.

Now let the heavens be joyful! Let earth the song begin!
Let the round world keep triumph, and all that is therein!
Let all things seen and unseen their notes in gladness blend,
For Christ the Lord hath risen, our joy that hath no end.

The Lord is risen, indeed. Happy Easter, y'all.

Peace,
Pennsy

The Final Chapter Begins

Two heads with pieces missing

Four years. It doesn't seem real, somehow. Four years ago today, the doctor and Mrs P and I sat in a room and decided that my life was in imminent danger from a fast growing mass that threatened to cut off the flow of blood to my brain, and crush my larynx. Basically, my body was strangling itself.

Two days later, the diagnosis came. The Amazing Cancer Boy was born.

I'm not going to tell the whole damn story again. If you're interested, the links to the right will take you through the entire adventure. It's a story that has taken over my life, defined every waking moment since that morning, for good and for ill.

"How do you feel?" a friend asked today. "You should feel great."

On the phone, Mum agreed. "I think you should, too."

Yeah. I should.

Somebody said to me once, maybe only half-joking, "You know, you were a lot more fun before you became a national treasure."

It was a joke. I know. But life is certainly different.

The Amazing Cancer Boy

Better in a lot of ways. I got to experience an outpouring of love that most people don't get until they are dead. I know what resurrection really means. I've experienced it. Several times. I have a purpose for my life, and a place to fulfill it, thanks to LIVESTRONG at the YMCA. I'm not sure I've ever had that feeling before... knowing that I'm doing something that is making a measurably positive difference in people's lives every day. I have done things physically, athletically even, that I never even dreamed of doing before I was sick. And maybe best of all, I have had the chance to know and love my mother in a way that might never have happened if we had not spent all those hours together laughing, crying, working crosswords, and pumping protein drinks into me through a rubber hose.

But in a lot of ways... well, it's hard to put into words. Resurrection has its price. My teeth are gone. And yeah, I miss them every day. My thyroid is dying, cooked by hours and hours of radiation. I have to take pills by the fist-full, and still I get so tired, so easily now. And so very sad sometimes. It's hard for me to remember things, especially when I try to memorize lines for a play.

Mrs P and Me in "happier"days

And there are other costs. Much more painful ones. I have loved and lost so many brave cancer fighters in the last four years. Been to way too many funerals. I've lost my family. Half of it, anyway. My dogs. My home. My best friend and the love of my life. The woman who fed me and cleaned me and mopped up my puke and kissed away my tears. Who gave me a reason to keep fighting for life. Can I blame cancer for all that? I don't know. Maybe not. But maybe without it, things might have been different. I know that at some point I went over a very important edge. I stepped into a place where even the woman who loved me most could not follow. And I know that cancer had a lot to do with my going there.

So yeah, I guess I'm glad to be alive. Being alive means I have a chance to... what? Make a difference? Heal? Find love again? Be whole, whatever that means? I don't know. All I know is that it's getting to be time to turn the page.

Five years. They throw a pile of numbers at you when you have cancer, but one of the biggest is five years. When we met the radiation oncologist, Mrs P and Mum and I, one of us asked my prognosis. "50%" the doctor answered. "50% of the people with your kind of cancer will live for 5 years." I remember seeing my mother cry at that. Five years. And no reason to think I'm not going to be one of the lucky ones. "Heads. You live." So that's how long he has left. One more year. One more chapter left in the tale of The Amazing Cancer Boy... the real-life boy who didn't die. In twelve months, I can close the book, put him to rest, and get on with whatever the rest of my life is going to be.

I've already registered for a marathon in May to celebrate my new life. I'm going to keep running. Don't really have any plans beyond that. I'm going to keep acting. I'm going to keep writing. .I'd like to be able to make a living again, so I'm not at the mercy of the docs and the shrinks and the Social Security Administration for my income. Maybe I can write and star in one-man shows about running.

I'd like to get on with all that. And in a way, I am. But in another sense... it's hard to explain... it's like I have one more year left to serve... my term?... my sentence?... maybe both. All I know is that I'm not going to really feel free until April 16, 2015.

Of course, there's a downside too. Without cancer, there'll be nobody left to blame but myself. I'll have lost the greatest excuse in the world. I'll be on my own.

And in some ways, that's even scarier that a tumor.

As for Cancer Boy? Well, there are some advantages to being a Minor Local Celebrity... It can be very good for the ego. But to be perfectly honest... I'm getting kind of sick of the son of a bitch.

#474 The Fortress of Fat

For the past year, my body has suffered from neglect and abuse while I struggled to regain my mental health. Grief and loss threatened to consume me and I responded to that threat in some pretty negative ways. Ate too much. Drank too much. Exercised too little. The bottom line is, I gained almost 50 pounds since finishing my marathon in the spring. I wan't just running away from my sadness. I was building a fortress of fat where I could hide from it.

2013 had been a hurricane, and it had left my house in a pile of rubble. I was going to have to rebuild from the ground up.Late in the year, some things happened to help me reset the foundations. The time I was spending with my therapist was starting to make sense to me. I was coming to understand just what my values were, and to learn ways to make choices that were more consistent with the things that mattered most to me. I got the opportunity to play with an inspiring group of young actors whose energy and wisdom helped me to see just how destructive my behavior and my thinking had become. Important time spent with my dearest friend, though soon to be ex-wife, reminded me that though the nature of our relationship might change, true love abides. I spent a long, largely solitary Advent in prayer and contemplation, renewing my friendship with God, whose love and guidance I had taken too much for granted. I actually met some new people and started new friendships. And I squeezed into the workout clothes that used to fit me so well, and waddled my big, big butt back into the gym. On Facebook, I called it my #evolutionresolution

In spite of the extra weight, my cardiopulmonary fitness was still pretty good. Thanks to the classes I teach, I get about four hours a week of moderate exercise, and that was enough for me to maintain a strong heart and lungs, even with the surplus pounds. I was tempted to pick a race... always a great motivator for me... and start hitting the road hard. Then I mounted the treadmill.

Too heavy. Way too heavy. I was slow, my muscles screamed after just a mile or so, and my knees and hips let me know that banging them with such a big hammer was going to end very badly for all of us. I was not going to be able to run my way out of the fortress of fat. I was going to have to start somewhere else.

My old iron friends were calling me home. It was time to get back to the weight room. We had just launched a new program called MobileFit at the YMCA, and I had the Wellness Director type in my information. All the shameful numbers. Primary goal: Weight loss. Secondary goal: Strength gains. A magic combination. I should have seen it coming.

The computer giggled softly to itself, and started spitting out daily workouts that would make a Spartan cry for his Mamma. Cruel, hour-long weight-lifting sessions. Daily doses of cardio. I took the recommendations and amped them up even more. I shortened the prescribed rest periods between sets to keep my heart rate up and jump start my metabolism. I increased the progression of weight and reps to encourage muscle growth. I intensified the short walks to long jogs. I've been at it for about a month now, and when I stepped on the scale yesterday morning, I was almost ten pounds lighter than I was at Thanksgiving.

Now that's a lot of weight to lose in a short amount of time. I know that. And I wouldn't recommend it to anyone. But I'm a big boy. And I had been very sedentary. Given those two factors, it is predictable that the first few pounds would come off quickly. I don't expect to maintain that pace for long. But I am encouraged. I can do this. I can be strong again. The fortress of fat will fall. The Fat Man will run again.

I love to tell my people at the Y, "If you can slide back, then you can slide forward, too." Barbells and treadmills have no feelings to hurt. They will always welcome you back. Yes, I have failed myself. But that doesn't mean I can't try again.

Give up? I'll give up when I'm dead. Today, I have a date with a squat rack. And before I'm through the poor thing isn't going to know what hit it.

Peace,
Pennsy

New Years: Goodbye 13, Hello 14

I apologize for the length of this post... I really did intend to break it up, but it all just sort of poured out at once, a little like pulling off a band-aid. Anyway, if you choose to ride along to the end of the track, I hope it's worth the trip.
Pennsy

Lessons learned are like bridges burned
You only need to cross them but once
Is the knowledge gained worth the price of the pain?
Are the spoils worth the cost of the hunt?
Lessons Learned ~ Dan Fogelberg

Some pretty important bridges burned for me in 2013. And to be honest, I've stared at the places where they used to be for just about long enough. It's time to turn my eyes away from the shadows and back toward the light. But first, one last long look. There are a few pearls I don't want to leave lying in the mud.

January - New Year, new goals.
Get that personal trainer certification. Run a thousand miles this year. Raise $6000 for LIVESTRONG at the YMCA. Grow the program into new locations. Take Martha on a real vacation. Get faster and stronger. Finish my second marathon. 

I learned the joy of knowing where you want to go, and sticking to your plans to get there. 

February - Goodbye old man
Brady, the majestic old Golden Retriever who greeted us when we first moved into our new house, who started staying with us one rainy day when his dad had to work and wasn't home to let him inside, who had been growing a little more stiff and tired with each passing winter day, turned and snapped as me one night as I tried to comfort his aching hips with a gentle massage. He was in so much pain that he couldn't stand. I lifted him in my arms, and carried him across the yard to his dad and we wept together for this old friend who had so touched both of our hearts. Brady was never "my dog," but he took a piece of my heart, and left a bit of himself in its place. 

God bless you, old man. You taught me dignity and friendship, even in suffering. I was going to need those lessons sooner than I could have known.

March - Living Strong
After training hard with Coach Carrie for months to build core strength and increase my speed, I launched my Fundraiser and my spring racing season with a bang. Lowered my time in the Shamrock Shuffle 3K by a ridiculous 3:40. Finished the month with another PR in the Run The Bluegrass Half Marathon in the best shape of my life. Accepted a new position as head trainer of the first LIVESTRONG at the YMCA program in Scott County. 

I learned how perseverance and commitment could make me better than I ever imagined I could be.

April - It all goes to shit
I notice my Blood pressure readings are steadily increasing. The doc sees me right away and orders me to stop running until we can learn if the new meds will stabilize me. I'm running a marathon in three weeks. 

At a YMCA workshop I overhear a conversation that was not meant for my ears, and learn that my friend, mentor, and beloved Coach Melissa is leaving for a new job. In two weeks. I go home, tell Martha the news, and begin crying, almost without interruption for the next month. I increase my therapist visits from once a month to twice a week.

Once the doc gives the go ahead, I'm back on the road. piling up miles, my pre-race training schedule shot to hell. 

There are tearful meetings at the Y. Attempts at business as usual. Attempts to say goodbye. Attempts to teach a new class. All dissolve into tears. I ask for, and am granted an indefinite leave of absence from the best job of my life, afraid I will never be able to return. 

At their annual banquet, the YMCA of Central Kentucky gives me an award for service. I am so ashamed.
Coach leaves. 

The marathon is a blur. I cry as I run in the rain, feeling as lonely as I ever have in my life. Mrs P is trapped in traffic, and doesn't get to see me finish. I wander the streets of Cincinnati, feeling as if even God has forgotten where I am. 

The next day, Martha tells me the family suspects I must be having an affair because I'm so upset over Coach leaving. She hasn't felt me caring about her that much in years. She's had enough, and says we need to separate. It's been a long time coming. 

I don't learn a god damned thing in April.

May - Numb
The crying jags get a little farther apart. I desperately want to return to the Y, but the boss and the shrink both think I need more time to recover. 

Packing. Drinking. Weeping. Begging. Posting painful, inappropriate, damaging blogs.... Taking them back down. 

A few tearful phone calls. Tell Mum. Tell my sister. Tell my best friend. Tell Coach. Our last real conversation. 

Apartment hunting, praying for one that will let me have a dog. 

Coach Carrie calls to tell me she's taking another job and leaving the Y. She didn't want me to find out from someone else. I am so grateful to her for her kindness, that I weep: this time for joy. I contact the boss. So ashamed of failing the program. Without Carrie, they are going to need me back. I need them more than air. He suggests I try to work my way back into things slowly, starting with the LIVESTRONG session that has already started. For the second time that week, the tears are for joy and gratitude. I swear to myself that I will not let the Y down again.

I learn that the people I work with - with their gentle,loving, forgiving spirits -  are among the greatest gifts God has ever given to me.

June - Bachelorhood
So, this is my apartment. Nice view of North Broadway. Nice neighbors. A little loud, but kind and welcoming. So close to the Y, I can walk there. No pets allowed. Haven't slept without a cat in years. Keep seeing Jake in the corner of my eye. 

Less crying. Less drinking. 

A chance to teach SilverSneakers, an aerobics class for seniors comes my way. I leap at it, studying the choreography furiously. I will not fail my coaches this time. 

Martha and I settle into an amicable separation. We talk. We visit. We consider the possibilities. I lie in the bed we shared for so many years. staring at the empty walls. What just happened? What comes next? I thought I would die without my wife. 

I learn that I won't.

July - Funerals
It has been a season of death for the LIVESTRONG at the YMCA family. More funerals in the a few months than the first two years combined. Some I never met. Some I loved like sisters. The dark suit is in and out of the closet every couple of weeks, it seems.Coach Marian and I are asked to say a few words for our friend Becky. A joyful warrior. She survived her first encounter, but not her second. She loved her friends, her family, and the Y. The paper says she "lost her battle with cancer." I am furious. I tell her loved ones, "don't you believe it." Cancer took her life, but never touched her spirit. I saw her without energy, without strength, without connection to the reality around her... but I never saw her without her joy. I never saw her without love. Cancer killed my friend. But it never won. 

I learned that no challenge, no matter how relentless and cruel, can take away our heart if we refuse to let go of it.

August - Reality sinking in
The fifth would have been our 24th anniversary. The papers haven't been drawn up, but already, it's starting to feel like the chances of going back are fading. 

Mum makes her annual summer visit. She has her poodle, Cujo with her, so she can't stay with me. She is at what I've already started thinking of as "Martha's house," and I go over for uncomfortable visits. It's difficult for all of us. Mum is confused. Wants to help. But there's nothing for her to do except to love us both. It's what she does best. The morning of her return to Pennsylvania, she and Cujo visit my apartment. We both cry a little, and she hugs me for a long time. 

Late in the month, I get a letter from Social Security telling me that my Disability Benefits will end in October. I try to kill myself, but chicken out at the last moment, thinking about how someone would have to call my mother and tell her. 

It took me too damn long to figure it out, but my Mom is the most faithful friend I've ever had. 

September - Lights on the horizon
At lunch with Eric from Actors' Guild, he tells me he wants to produce King Lear, and he wants me to play the king. Looks like a November opening. At the Y, a job is opening up for a water fitness instructor. I speak to the Aquatics Director, and send him my resume. 

Therapy is going well. We've stepped down to meeting every two weeks. 

I run what will be my last race of the year with my friend LaDonna and an infuriatingly pokey kid from the Y's Run This Town program who seems to have chosen this morning to decide that she doesn't want to run, hates running, and will never run again. I am even more stubborn than she is. I refuse to leave her behind, and we finish the 8K with her sprinting angrily ahead, and me trotting in as the very last finisher of the race. I skip the awards ceremony because I have to rush off to a rehearsal, and a few weeks later, I receive a medal in the mail. I finished third in my age group. 

October - An Actor's life
Two mornings a week I teach in the pool and in the Aerobics studio. Two nights a week, I coach LIVESTRONG.... And the rest of my waking hours are all about King Lear. 

There are so many lines. More than I've had to learn in years. More than ever, maybe. I work through the play twice, sometimes three times a day, trying to get them to stick in my brain. The cast is young. So very young. I barely know any of them. A couple of old friends, and the rest of them are young and beautiful and talented and I feel like a visitor from another planet among them. They know music I've never heard of. Speak in language I don't recognize. They smell like youth and life and sex and joy. And they work their asses off. Once, when I was touring with the National Shakespeare Company, for just a few months, we found an ensemble, an organic company that fit together so tightly that i wanted to act together with them for the rest of my life. That's what this company is starting to feel like to me. I can't wait to get to rehearsals with them. I rush to be early, just so I can sit back sagely and enjoy their laughter and stories. 

Holy shit. Out of nowhere. I'm an actor again. 

And somehow, in spite of all the changes, I learn that I always will be.

November - Riding the bi-polar roller-coaster
A long interview in the paper about the play. The writer was very generous and kind. Just a brief mention of our separation and nothing about my recent nervous breakdown. 

As opening night approaches, I am exhausted, and a nervous wreck. 

I'm going to suck. I'm going to let the kids down. A dear friend tells me she won't be attending the play because she saw a great production of it once, and doesn't want to ruin the memory.

Mum is coming. Martha is coming. People from my classes and my running group and my LIVESTRONG family and God knows who else - class mates from grad school who I haven't seen since 1985, for God's sake - and I am playing the role of a life time and I have absolutely no business doing it. 

I become irritable. Mumbling under my breath. Bitchy in the dressing room. I'm an asshole during notes after rehearsals. 

And all around me, these beautiful young actors, for whom I have tried to set such a good example.... they remain positive and focused and supportive. The believe in the show. They believe in me. Their courage gives me courage. We open and run for two impossibly short weeks. 

After strike, I'm inconsolable. I feel as if I've lost my family again. Deep, deep depression this time. A bad one. But I will not give in. I say my prayers. I sleep. And I teach at the Y. I will not fail my people again. I have promises to keep.And I keep them. 

Thanksgiving alone passes without the pain I feared, and I learn that I'm stronger, more loved, and more blessed than I knew.

December - Advent and redemption
So then, here we are. I've called 2013 the worst year of my life, and I'm sticking to it. If you'd told me what was coming, and given me the choice between that and a relapse of my cancer, I would have taken cancer. Absolutely. But here I stand. The devil missed me again. 

In December some pretty wonderful things happened. I made some new friends, and reconnected with some old ones, both online and in real life. 

The people in my classes offered me much kindness and love for Christmas. And I enjoy them with an affection that is both devoted and professional.

I've heard a lot of words about myself over the years, but this month, for the first time I heard these two: "Mentor" and "Father figure." I was shocked and humbled to imagine that people saw me in such a light. It just never occurred to me. But to be considered someone who is safe to talk to, who can be trusted, whose life has given them something like insight or wisdom... It really rattled my cage. I'm still sorting it out, but I think it's going to be the catalyst for some positive changes in the way I look at the world, and myself. 

Therapy is helping a lot. I'm starting to make more and more sense to me. My shrink needn't worry about his cash flow, though. I have a feeling we're gonna be together for a long, long time. 

My physical conditioning is shot to hell. My first line of defense against depression is always food, and I have loaded on the pounds this year. It's going to be a long way back, but I'm gonna do it. I know I can. I've done it before. 

Christmas alone wasn't easy. I'm not going to lie to you. Several people invited me to join them and their families, and I gratefully declined. I chose to go it alone this year. I figured if I could get through this, I could get through anything. And I got through it. Not as gracefully as I would have liked, but not nearly has badly as I feared. Santa didn't come to my house this year. But Jesus did, and we spent the day together. We had a long, serious conversation. Both of us had a lot to get off our chests.

There are good days and bad days. That's just life in the Bipolar Nation. Today is a good day, and the future looks full of hope for me. I've started gettingt back into racing shape. I'm finally reading Great Expectations. I'm using more tools in the kitchen than the freezer and the microwave. And someday, when I'm ready, and the time is right, I'd like to be in love again. But in the meantime. I've got work to do. some wise person posted on Facebook one day and I'm paraphrasing: 

"Don't worry about finding the right woman. Work on becoming the right man." 

God has saved my life again, from yet another fatal disease: depression. He keeps doing that.I figure he must have something in mind. Whatever it is, I want to be ready when it comes. Whether that's love, work, a marathon, or just being at the right corner at the right time... I want to be ready. And for all the grief it's caused me, this year will have made me more ready than I was before.

I don't think I'll ever look back at 2013 and laugh. But today, with just one day left of this annus horribilis, I can still look to heaven and say "Thank you." 

It's good to be alive.

Peace, and Happy New Year!
Pennsy.

#471: Thank you, Thank you, Thank you!

I just mailed a letter to 50 of the most inspiring people I know. Each of them contributed to a fundraiser I held this spring in conjunction with my attempt to complete the Flying Pig Marathon in Cincinnati.  When I think of the song "Wind Beneath My Wings," these are the people I remember. Their encouragement and support help to keep this Fat Man Running.

July 13, 2013

Dear Friends,

Thank You, Thank You, Thank You! 

It has been three months now since the Flying Pig Marathon in Cincinnati, and the conclusion of the fundraiser you helped to put over the top: Living Strong at the Y 2013. Our goal this year was an ambitious one: $7000. Thanks to your generosity, we smashed through that wall and raised $7551. That is beyond anything we expected or hoped for. You taught me a lesson. No goal is too high when we reach for it together.

Thank You for Supporting Our Survivors

Your dollars are already at work in the LIVESTRONG® at the YMCA program at the North Lexington Family YMCA, and every penny is going toward helping cancer survivors and their families to enjoy the benefits of fitness, healthy eating, and new friendships, many of which will last a lifetime. I am so grateful to you for making all that happen. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

Thank You for Running with Me

My very ambitious personal goal was to beat my 06:21:53 time in the 2012 Pittsburgh Marathon by an hour. I didn't quite do that, but I was able to finish in 5:42:35... almost 40 minutes faster. I was proud of that effort, and the special "Buck a Minute" pledges that it raised. I know that 5:21:53 target is still out there waiting for me. Your support and kind thoughts will help me to get there before much longer.

Thank You for Sticking with Us

I'm already planning and dreaming for next year. After consulting with the folks at the LIVESTRONG foundation down in Austin, I've decided to change the name of our project from Living Strong at the Y to Run Bob, Run. I checked with them because I was concerned that the original name of our project was too similar to the trademark “LIVESTRONG,” and might be confusing to people. Together, we came up with a title that reflects the focus and personal nature of our work. If you would like to visit the new online site, the address is http://www.crowdrise.com/runbobrun2014/fundraiser/pennsy

I haven't settled on next year's event, but be sure it will be a fun one. I'm thrilled with the things we have accomplished together, and can't wait to see where the next few months will lead us.

On behalf of the YMCA, the LIVESTRONG foundation, and the survivors and families who will benefit from your gifts, thank you. LIVESTRONG at the YMCA is alive and growing thanks to you. I hope you have a safe and joyful remainder of your summer.

Peace,

Bob

#469: Race Report: 2013 Capital City Stampede 10K

Kentucky's State Capitol Building in Frankfort

Downtown Frankfort rests beside the Kentucky River, in a lovely valley. Driving from Lexington, you approach the city down a long hill, past historic Northern Kentucky University. Yesterday morning, a thick fog rose from the river and rested just above the rooftops giving the whole town a mystical canopy. At the Capital Avenue Bridge, where a sharp left turn usually offers a magnificent view of the domed capitol building, there was only a long climb toward the clouds making the great edifice seem more like something from a storybook than a stone and marble temple of government in what was once the wildest part of the western United States.

Runners and cyclists had already started to arrive when I parked my car. There was a century ride scheduled in another part of the city, and I drove in with several cars laden with zillion dollar bikes and people in those crazy jerseys that cyclists wear. I do enjoy riding my bike, and I admire their sport, but I don't think I'll be joining them anytime soon. Running gives me more than enough challenges. It would have several in store for me before this day was over. 

Here in cloud-land, high above old downtown Frankfort, the sun was doing his best to burn through the morning haze. I walked down to the foot of the steps and collected my packet. This race supports the Frankfort YMCA, so it was particularly special to me. I am always proud to race in my yellow Y singlet, but that was especially true to day as I ran to represent not only my LIVESTRONG at the YMCA family, but the whole YMCA of Central Kentucky association. It was like being at a family reunion. You may not know a lot of the names, but there is comfort in knowing that they're all your cousins, somehow.

I started to warm up, and was reminded just how rough those picturesque hills can be on a runner. They make for great views, but there's a lot of climbing up and down to do when you race in Frankfort. I did a light jog or two up the big hill that leads around the right side of the capitol, past the floral clock, and behind the annex where the supreme court sits. This was to be the last half of mile 6 in the 6.2 mile race. We would all be feeling it the next time we saw that colorful clock.  (Come to think of it, I don't remember noticing it during the race.) At the top of the hill, I realized the beauty of the course. The last quarter mile was a steep down-hill sprint. Our finishing kick was going to be more like a finishing free fall as we tore down the road around the left side of the building. This would be a blast. 

By now, the sun was making some headway against the fog, so I trotted back to the car to change from my amber to my dark glasses. The pause gave me a chance to admire the assembly of the tribes. There were the Pear Shaped, the Lean and Mean (aka the "real" runners,) the Aging Hippies, they Callow Youths, and of course my own people, the Fat Men. I love these guys most of all. Fat Men haven't been running all their lives, and running isn't easy for them. Somewhere along their journey something made them say, "I really need to be running." A Fat Man Running is a man who is trying to make a change. I love that about my tribe. I watched one fellow in his baggy shorts and XXXL tee shirt as he paced around the grounds, stopping now and then to stretch, a little awkwardly maybe, but with as serious an intent as any Olympian. I loved him in all his middle aged glory because I felt as if I knew him. I knew he had great things in store for himself.

The starting area was strangely quiet at 7:50. There is usually a big crowd assembled 10 minutes before start time. Music was playing, but no local celebrity was at the mic making announcements and shouting encouragement. No pace group signs. Nothing at all to indicate that a race was about to start. At 7:55, I decided that I had the starting time wrong. Must be an 8:30 gun. Cool. No sense standing around cramping. I started to jog up the hill, running backwards on the course, away from what would be the finish line. I was probably 200 yards away when I heard the horn blow and uttered a word that was not appropriate for the uniform I was wearing. I had just missed the starting gun.

It was a good thing I had been warming up for 45 minutes, because I'm not sure I could have completed a 200 yard dash without the EMTs otherwise. Of course, I did have that long, steep hill to assist me. I managed to cross the start/finish line with the last of the walkers and began the long, slow process of weaving my way through traffic. In the excitement, I forgot to start my Garmin, and so did not start timing until about a block into the race. I'm still waiting on the official time to tell me how fast I ran.

The start of the course is a long descent from the Capitol steps to downtown and the river. The easy slope gave me a chance to recover my legs and my composure. It's tempting to exploit this long stretch to build up some speed, but racing down hills can wear you out too. I chose a conservative pace as I started finding runners who were more or less in my league. We wove around the downtown streets, along the railroad tracks on Broadway, and then turned into the long slow climb back up toward the start. These first two miles are an out and back loop, but they are also a down and up loop. All that glorious downhill run now had to be paid for. That's how Frankfort works. It's all long rollers. You enjoy one, then pay for the next one. Half-way back up the hill, we made the sharp left turn toward the river again. The Kentucky winds through these mountains and you never know where she's going to turn up next. Slipping down hill again, all you can think about is what a long climb this is going to be on the way back. And a long climb it is. The second leg of the course is another out and back and as you approach the turn, you realize that you have been going down just about the entire way. You're about to finish the last third of a 6 mile race and it's almost all uphill from here.

Of course the beauty of an out and back course is that you get to see runner's faces as you are heading back toward home. One of them was my brother Fat Man. He was the very last runner. Walking along, soaked to the bone with sweat, but his face hardened with determination. I said a silent prayer for him. I know what he feels like. He's going to have a great race when he comes back next year.

I had been tracking another runner for quite a while. A long haired, middle aged fellow with dark blue shorts and a gigantic beard was about 30 yards ahead of me, where he had been since the downtown loop. He was slow but steady, like me, and taking more frequent walk breaks than I was. I could tell he was tiring and decided to try to reel him in. That was going to be harder than I thought. I was as close as I had been all day when we hit the hard left turn that started the steepest part of the climb around the capitol building. Up we went. I had planned on 1:00 walks every mile, so my last one was done. He was taking those random breaks that tell you a runner is too tired to hold his rhythm. The dude was gassing. I turned my eyes down and chugged along. Every time he walked, I closed a little more. By the time we reached the crest of the hill, I was close enough to hear him breathing hard. I swung out to pass... the sucker had been playing possum! We both started to kick, and I watched with delighted amazement as this hairy old dude pulled away from me like a dragster. I don't know if I could have caught him or not, but I was in no mood to try. Instead, I settled into a hard run just short of "go for broke" and concentrated on not letting anybody pass me on the way to the finish line. And nobody did. 

It was a pretty race. The humidity was high, but the combination of the morning dew and the shady roads kept things feeling a lot cooler than they actually were. I felt strong at the end and I like my conditioning as I prepare for the Bluegrass 10,000 on July 4th. I don't know if I'm ready to hit that 60 minute mark just yet, but I'm confident I'll be beating last year's heat soaked time.

Today, I'm resting. I'm not a racer, not really, but running hills in a race does funny things to your head. You don't want to be passed, and you want to catch the next runner. You press a little harder, a little longer than you might if you were running on your own. My batteries need recharging. But tomorrow? That asphalt better be ready. The great big feet of the Fat Man tribe will be out pounding again.

Peace,

Pennsy